


Lay By Me

by greygoo



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Alcohol, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:28:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23939161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greygoo/pseuds/greygoo
Summary: After the events of Quack Pack, Donald and Della have a fight that sends the weary uncle from the McDuck manor and straight into strong, Grecian arms that carry a heavier weight than he could have ever expected.
Relationships: Donald Duck/Storkules
Comments: 12
Kudos: 149





	Lay By Me

As a bird who lived on water, Donald had never been partial to the rain. It meant slips, trips, and falls. It meant thunder storms and the inevitable shock of lightning that accompanied them. Rain meant flooding in the houseboat or muddy footprints all over its white wooden floors. The rain called attention to his leaky roof and the fact that he couldn’t afford to have it fixed. The rain meant sick boys, bored boys, both of which spelled disaster for his home.

The only thing rain was good for was fishing, but he doubted there would be any biting in the middle of Uncle Scrooge’s pool.

Still, with his innate habit to find the rhythm in everything, Donald bounced his foot to the erratic patter of rain against glass. He snuggled deeper into the oversized couch, warm and cozy, a direct contrast to the dark gray downpour outside. The day had started out with clear skies and no chance for rain. Rain had only come once Donald had made the impromptu decision to leave the mansion. On foot. The sudden change of weather was just another terrible turn of events on an already terrible day. A terrible turn of events that had led to Donald coming all the way to— “More tea, dearest friend?”

A dimly lit apartment building in the center of Duckburg. The low lighting added to the dreary atmosphere that was pouring down from the sky. The single lamp pressed against a far wall by the door not nearly enough to fully light the large living room, but it would have to do, as the main ceiling light was nothing but an empty hole with wires poking out. There was a story behind how it had come to be that way, but it wasn’t one he was interested in hearing.

Donald sighed and looked down into his near empty cup. More tea would be nice, warm as the apartment was, just looking outside made him feel chilly. But it was late and he was going to have a hard-enough time getting to sleep with what little caffeine was already in his system. Not that Donald was any stranger to sleepless nights.

Tonight, though, he wanted to pretend like he and insomnia had never met, let alone had been closely intimate for a number of years. Donald didn’t want to lay awake thinking about the day’s events: the genie, his sister, the fight they’d had. Just the memory had hot flashes burning the back of his skull, making his chest buzz with repressed anger. Donald’s grip over the small, blue tea cup tightened and it was in serious danger of being smashed. Had the cup been his, it already would be.

Donald grit his teeth and slowly counted backwards from three. Three, two, one. Hubert, Dewford, Llewellyn. Three. Three boys. Three reasons to control his temper. If only their _mother_ — He shook his head, no less calm than before he counted.

No thanks,” he told Storkules, his entire body tense with tightly controlled rage. He wanted to hit and smash and throw, to destroy the couch he was sitting on and everything near him.

Why he had thought visiting Storkules at his Duckburg apartment would do anything to calm his temper eluded him. Why he had expected to find the man back in the city months after the moon’s failed invasion attempt was also a mystery. Donald refused to acknowledge that it was born out of some miserable desire to still have at least one friend left in Duckburg. One place he could escape to that wouldn’t throw constant reminders of a changing family dynamic at him.

“Ah, yes, perhaps then I could offer you a different kind of beverage?” Storkules questioned from across the room. Out of respect for Donald’s personal boundaries, the god had refrained from sitting on the couch with him. Instead he’d taken to sitting cross legged on the opposite end of the room, his knees bouncing from excitement and his cheeks puffed from the effort not to shout.

Like most things in life—the couch, the apartment, the city of Duckburg itself—it was all a few sizes too small for the Olympian. The couch, while being the largest Donald had ever sat on, would still look child sized underneath Storkules. And while Donald appreciated the consideration, it wasn’t really necessary. Not this time. He wasn’t so unreasonable a duck that he would tell a man not to sit on his own couch just because they might bump elbows.

….He just hadn’t told Storkules that, yet.

“What kind of beverage?” Donald asked after finishing the last of his tea. Maybe talking would distract him. He was sure it wouldn’t take much to get the man rambling about some grand quest he’d partaken in well before Donald had even been conceived. And anything that didn’t directly involve him was always less likely to set him off. 

“A celebratory drink!” Storkules exclaimed with an enthusiastic fist pump. “The first visit of Donald Duck to mine own humble apartment is an occasion to be commemorated!” The stork’s voice was loud, but Donald didn’t think the neighbors would be able to hear. The walls were thick, but more than that, Storkules was controlling his volume; using an indoor voice. A product of one of many _responsible adult_ lessons Donald had imparted onto him during their apartment hunting escapades.

The satisfaction of successfully teaching a centuries old god something new diminished the guilt Donald felt at not having visited the man sooner. Just a little bit. He still winced at the unsaid and unintentional accusation and knew, before even being told the name of the beverage, that he would be agreeing to drink it. Which was a worrying thought as Storkules rushed into the kitchen to prepare said drink.

The kitchen was an entirely separate area from the living room that spoke more to the apartment’s opulence than the slick hardwood floors or tall, glass pane balcony doors ever could. And they spoke a lot. Looking around, the apartment was as loud as its owner with how it shouted of luxury. What with its high ceiling, marble counter tops, giant master bedroom, washer and dryer _in unit—_ It was the kind of place that usually wouldn’t let a duck like Donald through the door.

Which is exactly what Donald had thought when Storkules had pointed excitedly at its golden archway and requested to at least check it out while they’d been apartment hunting. Donald had tried to dissuade him, but the stork’s enthusiasm at finding an apartment complex named after Ithaquack was a force as powerful as, well, Storkules himself. He’d relented, they’d gone in, and Storkules had instantly fallen in love. Something he seemed to do a lot.

No, bad thought.

The building manager, a stern looking pigeon, had approached Donald looking like he was about to ask the duck if he were _lost_ — Fortunately standing next to the Colossus of Corinth was enough to dull any sharp derision from the bird. He’d have hated to break something in such a fancy place. Mainly because he would have to pay for the damages. And there would be a lot. There always was…

Whatever. Turned out Donald being there hadn’t really mattered. The manager had taken one look at Storkules and not only recognized him, but tripped over himself to deliver sycophantic praise and adoration. As though the god would bestow some kind of blessing on the hoity-toity establishment. It showed that while the place was named after Ithaquack and had a pure gold bust of Storkules on their pure gold reception counter—They didn’t know a damn thing about the god.

It had irritated Donald more than it should have, but that was true of almost everything. He’d reigned that anger in long enough for the manager to offer Storkules a penthouse apartment, free of charge, and then followed the two as they talked of ancient Greece and distinguished fact or fiction of old mythologies. The whole thing, the ease of it, the luck, the way the elevator had malfunctioned and closed too early, slamming shut on Donald’s outstretched leg, had reminded him too much of cousin Gander.

How the world opened doors of possibilities for everyone else only to slam them shut in Donald’s face the second he turned a webbed-foot in their direction.

The cup in Donald’s hand shook and he could feel heat flushing to his cheeks. The whole world was out to—

“Huzzah! I have procured the Ouzo!” Storkules called out from inside the kitchen. It was enough to pull Donald from his own thoughts, something he was quietly grateful for.

“What’s Ouzo?” He asked, both out of curiosity and a need to hear a voice other than the disparaging one inside his own head.

The god walked out of the kitchen with a swagger to his step that had Donald close to rolling his eyes. He was holding a sleek bottle, completely clear and resembling vodka. Some kind of alcohol, then? Maybe not the best idea, he hadn’t touched the stuff since before the boys hatched. Hadn’t missed it either. College was all the fun Donald had ever needed and then some. And then there was the whole _empty stomach_ thing.

“’Tis an aperitif. Father enjoys it immensely and I… have been known to enjoy it as well, occasionally.” Seeing a grown god blush and look away after admitting to liking alcohol, like it was some taboo thing, was a comical sight to behold. It not only reminded Donald of just how childish the thousands of years old deity could be, but also had him smirking in the most terrible way. Previous anger buried under a mound of amusement. 

“Who knew the Lion of Lamia was a lush.” Donald didn’t mean it, but it was fun to say. He had wanted to forget his anger, the fight, and teasing a god seemed as good a way as any. A drink or two could be just what he needed. He could find out if gods were even capable of feeling the effects of alcohol. He was sure Huey would appreciate the… Donald’s smirk dipped into a frown. Why did all his thoughts inevitably lead back to his family? 

“Noble Donald, ‘twas… you see a tradition of Father’s was to… if thou disapprove I—” Storkules was rambling and it reminded Donald a lot of when the boys were caught doing something they would typically never admit to doing. Huey coloring outside the lines. Dewey coloring _inside_ the lines. Louie helping out around the houseboat without being bribed.

Again. The boys. He came here to get away from the family, not think about them constantly only a different couch.

He raised his free hand to cut off the other bird’s rambling. Storkules, receptive to even Donald’s nonverbal commands, clamped his beak shut and waited for the duck to speak. “There’s nothing wrong with an adult drinking. _Responsibly._ ” He said the word pointedly, practiced. Like he had rehearsed similar lines for when the boys were finally—

“How do you drink the stuff, anyway?” he asked, changing the topic. Was it a shots thing or did gods do mixers, chasers? Was it some fancy Olympian thing or was it just… Greek?

“With water!” Storkules said, his eyes brightening, the stork obviously equally grateful for the change of topic. “Though, Father prefers to drink from the bottle…”

Donald shrugged. “

We’ll drink it how you like it.”

Anything straight from the bottle sounded terrible, anyway. Donald knew himself, and he knew he’d be trying to keep up with Storkules drink for drink, shot for shot. It was just in his nature to be competitive, much as he tried, like many of his more negative traits, to push it down. Not a healthy way to do it, or so said his therapist, but what did that guy know? Except how to write a nasty bill.

“Water it is!” Storkules stepped forward, but didn’t come too close. “Your cup, dear Donald.”

Donald handed over his tea cup, their hands grazing briefly, and he watched the big bird go back into the kitchen with it. He was relieved to be rid of it, honestly. The less breakable objects around him, the better. Though, anything could be breakable with enough anger.

Snuggling deeper into the couch, Donald wished for something other than the sound of rain against glass to fill the silence. He would have suggested a movie, but there was no TV. Music then, from his phone if it came to it. Or even one of Storkules’ heroic tales. Anything to escape his own thoughts. Uncle Scrooge may have taught that silence was golden, but Donald had had enough of gold. It wasn’t as valuable as his uncle made it out to be. Not in the way that _mattered._

Oh, bother, there he went again, thinking about family.

The telltale sounds that came from rummaging through cupboards was enough to distract Donald, if only momentarily, from his own thoughts.

“Need help in there?” Donald called out, though he made no real effort to get up, too comfortable to really want to move.

“No ‘tis—gah, ‘tis fine, dear Donald!” Storkules replied.

Donald shrugged. If everything was not fine, he was sure the god could handle it. What damage could Storkules do in his own apartment, just getting water and glasses to pour it into? A question Donald immediately regretted asking himself, because the potential for disasters was a list longer than Donald’s latest collections bill.

A loud crash followed by the sound of glass shattering had Donald standing, flashbacks to the last time he had left Storkules alone in a kitchen overtaking any thoughts of comfort and adding urgency to his steps as he rushed in to help. It was a whiplash of emotions, but he was used to the strikes. What did it matter, anyway? There was going to be glass everywhere, the whole place was going to be on fire, the pipes would burst, the building was going to collapse, _they were all going to_ —

“What’s going on in here!” Donald questioned loudly upon entering the kitchen, his posture hunched and breathing wheezy with panic. Only for him to stand straight, brow raised in disbelief at what he found, panic dissipating at the totally mundane sight before him.

Storkules was sweeping up a small amount of broken glass into a dustpan with a whisk broom. The broom and dustpan looked comically small in the God’s large hands and the corners of Donald’s beak twitched upwards in a half smile. Not just a funny sight, but sweeping up a mess immediately after making it was the _responsible_ thing to do. Maybe Storkules moving out on his own really had been for the best. He never would have learned that living on the houseboat, with Donald constantly cleaning up after him. The duck’s need to have a tidy home winning over his desire for Storkules to learn to clean up after himself every time.

“Dear Donald,” Storkules’ looked up from where he was sweeping, his expression sheepish and happy at the same time. “’Twas a mere accident, in my haste to procure snacks I—”

“Snacks?” Donald cut him off, already looking around the kitchen for the free food. Storkules was a good cook Donald had come to find; on the rare occasion he hadn’t set anything on fire. And it had been a while since he’d last ate Greek food. “Wat’cha got?”

Storkules stood from his crouched position and dumped the glass in the pop-open waste bin, his cheerful expression turning apologetic. “Had I known you were coming; I would have prepared a feast. Alas, ‘tis the day before my shopping and I only have…” The God trailed off and looked over to one of his marble counters like he was ashamed of what was there.

“Pita bread and hummus?” Donald asked, but it was more of a statement. He walked over to the counter and picked up the silver tray the thin bread slices had been spread out on, the hummus, still in its container, in the center of them all. Not the most appetizing spread, Donald never being the biggest fan of hummus, but free was free.

“It looks great,” he told Storkules. “I’ll take this to the living room, but… you sure you don’t need any help with the drinks?”

“Your benevolence is a radiant ray of sunshine on this most dreary night, my dear Donald,” Storkules said as he picked up a tray by the fridge. On it was the same bottle from before, a tall, clear pitcher of water, and two tall, thick bottomed glasses with round cubes of ice already inside. “But I can most certainly continue unaided.”

“… If you say so,” Donald shrugged and walked back out into the living room. He sat the tray down on the black glass coffee table. A very breakable looking table, he noted. At least he could relax knowing that nothing he did in anger would physically hurt the god. No glass shards or punches thrown would be enough to damage his friend. Not something Donald could usually say and he had to remind himself that Storkules’ durability was no excuse to fly off the handle.

He had come to the stork’s apartment to avoid that sort of thing, anyway.

Donald sat down on the couch and waited for Storkules to join him before digging into the pita bread. The wait wasn’t long and the big bird came out of the kitchen carrying the tray of drinks with a wide, self-satisfied smile. Probably because he had managed to carry the tray full of breakable, mortal objects into the living room and set them down on the coffee table without incident. Or, at least without another glass breaking. Donald would give him that, after a week of living with the big guy, he’d learned how difficult normal living was for him. Figuring out what accidents were avoidable and what ones were merely the result of Storkules not realizing his own strength hadn’t taken long.

What to forgive and what to scold over had come in tandem with that knowledge. What had really shocked the duck was the times he would forgive and the surprise it always resulted in from the god. As though he were unused to positive lessons from an authority figure.

Just one more reason to despise the king of Olympus himself, Donald supposed. Like he had needed anymore. Endangering his boys was more than enough reason to—

“So, you gonna pour me a drink, or…,” Donald started, only to frown as he noticed Storkules had retreated back to the opposite end of the room after placing the tray on the coffee table. With a sigh he patted the space on the couch next to him.

Without a word Storkules shuffled over with a bright grin spread across his face. The large bird took a seat beside him, causing the couch to dip and forcing Donald to tilt himself in the opposite direction to stop from sliding into the stork. Even without direct contact, he could feel the bird’s excited vibrations through the couch cushions. He rolled his eyes, knowing what the man was holding himself back from and deciding to get it over with so they could get on with their night.

“You can hug me, once—WHOAH!” Donald quacked as he was pulled into a tight embrace and swung from side to side as Storkules let all of his bottled-up excitement out in one swift motion.

“Oh, friend Donald! What a glorious night! How I hath missed you!” the god exclaimed, his eyes pinched closed from how tightly he was smiling. It was touching and suffocating all at the same time. Especially considering Storkules was the only one who—

“Put. Me. Down,” Donald grunted between strained breaths. He shoved at the god’s chest and plopped back onto the couch with a bounce when Storkules finally released him.

Much as he wanted to glare and berate the man, Donald couldn’t bring himself to do more than huff in his friend’s direction. All because Storkules had controlled himself in a way the duck hadn’t thought possible when he had first knocked on the god’s door. Having shown up so late at night, with mud caked feet, completely soaking wet, and chilled right down to the bone, might have had something to do with the man’s restraint, though. That hadn’t made it any less a sign of the stork’s growth that he hadn’t just immediately scooped Donald up and lamented his poor state, but had rather ran to fetch him a warm towel and gently guide the duck to his over-sized bathroom so that he could clean himself and use the stork’s blow dryer to dry his sailor uniform.

The god had even gone so far as to brew him some tea while he cleaned up. Apparently remembering when Donald had offhandedly mentioned how it would be nice to have a cup after he’d first helped Storkules settle into his apartment.

After witnessing such a level of restraint from Storkules, Donald figured he could afford the man at least one over-enthusiastic embrace. Even if it was sure to leave a few bruises.

“Signómi, den tha to xanakáno,” Sotrkules said hurriedly with both hands held up. And Donald didn’t need to understand the language to know the guy was apologizing for hugging him too hard. It was more than his friend would have done in the past, and that he’d done it in Greek spoke to how instinctive the apology was.

“It’s fine,” Donald said with a shrug.

An awkward silence settled over them as they sat on the couch. Storkules had his hands in his lap and kept casting glances Donald’s way. Smiling, frowning, glancing down, then starting the whole sequence over again. Donald looked from the food, to the tray of drinks, to the god who had brought them out. His beak twisted downward into a let’s-get-this-over-with frown and he reached for a piece of the pita bread and leaned back against the couch’s arm rest as he took a bite.

Storkules watched him chew it slowly and Donald could feel his cheeks warm up in response to being watched so closely. The casual visit, the unexpectedness of it all, was new to them both. He wasn’t visiting Storkules because of a plane malfunction or an adventure, and Storkules hadn’t come to him for any kind of guidance. It was just two friends catching up over drinks.

So why couldn’t he do just that? The awkwardness in the air was palpable enough that Donald felt he could dip his pita bread into it. He tapped his fingers on the armrest just to create some kind of background noise, faint as it was. Being under such an intense stare was ruffling Donald’s feathers and he knew if he didn’t do something soon, Storkules would have a face full of pita bread. And _not_ because he was eating it.

The bread, homemade he suspected, was too good to waste, anyway. Though, the thought didn’t do anything to stop his brows from furrowing and annoyance from seeping into his voice as he asked, “You gonna stare all night or pour me a drink?”

His hand on the armrest clenched into a fist as he visibly restrained himself from making more of an issue out of his friend’s staring. It had been a while since they’d last seen each other, that’s all. The stork had a strong attachment to him, one Donald didn’t return. But he hadn’t lied when he’d called Storkules a friend and as one of the very few friends he had; Donald owed him an attempt at being civil.

“Oh, right, of course,” Storkules said with a shake of his head. The god then reached for the bottle of Ouzo and poured what looked like three shots worth into the glass. Donald leaned forward, his eyes wide, as the clear liquid turned a milky white color after making contact with the ice. Storkules sat the bottle down and picked up the pitcher of water, using it to fill the rest of the glass.

Donald watched his friend make the drink with the internal admission that he looked good doing it. Now, he wasn’t hyper aware of the man’s looks. He didn’t blush at the ripple of Storkules’ muscles as he held his great strength in check. Didn’t sigh as those golden locks fell over a broad shoulder. And his heart didn’t skip a beat whenever the god openly declared his love for him.

Because Donald could find his friend attractive without being _attracted_ to him. He would never be attracted to the man in anything but a platonic way, and he would hate to ever give Storkules a reason to think anything other. Not because the thought disgusted him, but because it would be unfair to the man, cruel even. Donald cared enough about Storkules as a friend to never accidentally lead him on a path he couldn’t follow. It was a difficult balancing act; one Donald wasn’t used to performing.

Because, well, who else but family had ever loved Donald Duck?

Family…

Storkules grabbed both glasses and handed one to Donald who took it and immediately peered down at the liquid to watch as the water swirled and became cloudy the more it mixed with the alcohol. Just what he needed. His mind had started to go places that would have Donald’s ex-therapist shaking his head in disappointment.

“Thanks, pal,” Donald said, but before he could take so much as a sip, Storkules was lifting his cup up high and smiling down at him.

“A toast to the first visit of my dearest, best friend Donald Duck!”

Oh boy, Donald exhaled loudly and held his cup up out of courtesy more than anything. He was a guest and if a toast was what Storkules needed to get over his awkwardness, then whatever, he wouldn’t object.

“Sure,” he said as he clinked their glasses together, having to stretch high to do it. He didn’t wait to take a sip after, and openly smacked his bill together as the odd taste passed over his tongue. The drink was different. It tasted almost like… licorice? Not his favorite flavor, but he didn’t hate it with the same vehemence as his sister. His sister… Donald frowned and took another, longer drink.

“It’s good,” he said through a grimace. Good, but strong, and it burned on the way down. He was glad the snack Storkules had brought out was bread. Donald would be needing the carbs.

“’Tis a favorite from home,” Storkules smiled at him as he drank the entire glass in one mighty gulp. “I remember when the humans first crafted it….” The wistful tone was an opportunity to get the god talking about himself and Donald seized it.

“So…,” he slowly swished the glass around, making the round ice cubes bounce off the sides. “Got any stories?” Donald had never been good at small talk. He’d never been good at _talking_ in general, despite what his college major suggested, but he would make the effort here.

Storkules chuckled and mixed himself another drink. “Why, I’m sure any tales I could tell would pale in comparison to your own epic adventures.” The stork drank his next drink more slowly, and the awkwardness around them slowly started to fade out as they both adjusted to the casualness of their exchanges. Finally.

“There must be something,” Donald encouraged his friend. He’d read all about the hero’s twelve labors, the cities he saved, his legendary feats. But after so many adventures with Uncle Scrooge, Donald had come to find that the most interesting stories were rarely the ones written in the history books.

“Well….” Storkules looked up at the ceiling and rocked in place on the couch. “….have I ever told you of the time I was mortal?”

Donald choked on his drink. “You were mortal?!” he coughed, one hand on his throat as if to soothe the burning sensation there. Both caused by the alcohol itself and the liquid going down the wrong pipe.

“Naí!” Storkules nodded, oblivious to Donald’s struggles. “’Twas but a short time, not even half a century. But, ah-yes,” the God sighed dreamily. “I remember it fondly.”

Donald beat his chest and with one eye closed looked over his friend, a level of curiosity in his gaze that he hadn’t expected, not toward the god, at least. He had never heard of Storkules being mortal, he couldn’t picture it either. The guy leapt off of tall buildings and charged head first into deadly situations like it was a hobby. He wouldn’t survive a day being mortal in present times, much less the death trap that was ancient Greece.

Donald waited for Storkules to start talking, to tell him all about it in that irritating, boastful, yet charming way of his, but no such tale came. His friend was looking into the glass he held with that same dreamy expression, seemingly lost in his own memories. It was a look Donald had only ever seen directed at, well, him.

Wanting to hear the story more than he’d like to admit, was the only reason he reached over to tap the stork’s shoulder in an attempt to get his attention. There could be no other reason because Donald didn’t care who or what the god turned his _attentions_ toward.

His tapping-touch was hard enough to be felt through layers of muscle, but short enough that it couldn’t be considered lingering. “You alright there, buddy?” Donald asked, his brows furrowed. Storkules hadn’t looked upset, but what else was he supposed to say? The situation was turning awkward again and Donald was seconds away from striking up a conversation about the weather. The second most boring topic he could think of, right after talking about himself.

Storkules blinked and ran a hand through his hair.

“Yes, dear Donald, apologizes, I was merely lost in the memory. Today is rather….” The god trailed off, the smile he directed at Donald looking strained. “Would you believe I hath not told a single mortal of this tale?” The change of topic caught Donald off guard, but he rolled with it. He was the last kind of duck to pry.

“Hard to believe,” Donald said after taking another sip of his drink, the burn lessening the emptier his glass got.

“’Tis true,” Storkules assured him. “She did not care for the legends written for me and wanted no part in them. Respecting her wishes I…,” Storkules released a short breath and his smile became more genuine as he looked at Donald. “….today of all days.” His friend repeated, tone thoughtful.

Storkules. Thoughtful. The strangeness, the vagueness; it all was enough for Donald’s irritation to begin creeping back up. He didn’t like being confused or talked around, or both, and especially not by Storkules of all birds. 

“Who is she? What’s so special about today?” Donald was more bewildered than angry, so far. But he didn’t know how long it would last if the stork continued with the enigmatic shtick. He was trying to be a good guest, to control his temper and have a casual chat. But a duck’s patience had limits and Donald’s were shorter than any other ducks’ he knew and had already been stretched thin well before he got here.

“Oh, yes, of course. She is, no ‘twas…” Storkules trailed off again and Donald’s frown tightened. “… Megrana. My wife.” If Donald had still been drinking, he would have choked for the second time that night.

“Your wife?!” He had never heard… there weren’t any stories about… _wife?!_ “Since when were you married?” Donald’s tone came out more disbelieving than he’d meant, but he couldn’t help it. Marriage was the sort of things friends told each other about, right? Donald didn’t think he could ever keep quiet about it if he ever got married, much less keep it from his supposed _best friend._

“Mm, what was the year…” Storkules stroked the underside of his beak while taking another sip of his drink. The stork, unbothered, as he usually was, by Donald’s outburst. It was in that moment, in the dim light of the living room as he stared open mouthed at the other bird. That he realized how very _adult_ his friend looked. Subconsciously, in the depths of his mind, Donald must have put the god in the same category as the boys. Not family, but young, immature, needing guidance. Yet here Storkules was, drinking alcohol, a formerly married man, reminiscing about a past that reached so far back Donald couldn’t begin to fathom how he distinguished between centuries, let alone individual years.

It was enough to cool his temper as rapidly as it had risen. The thought that he had been treating his friend like a child, that outside of stories told by other birds, he didn’t really know anything about him.

A sobering thought even as Donald finished the last of his drink and used the back of his sleeve to wipe off his bill. Must be the root cause of why he didn’t have very many friends. He was bad at it. _Like most things_ —

“’Twas around four hundred BCE, I believe. Perhaps earlier,” Storkules said it as he reached to take Donald’s glass. The duck, ready for another drink, didn’t hesitate in handing it over. “’Tis shameful to admit, but I can never recall the exact year.”

Storkules handed the now full glass back to Donald, who wasted not time taking another drink. The licorice flavor finally beginning to come through more than the sharp alcoholic taste.

“Thanks,” he said, and unprompted continued in a reassuring tone. “Dates are hard, unless it involves the boys, I can barely remember what happened last week, never mind years ago.”

He expected a laugh, maybe an admonishment that Donald Duck could never forget anything, or something equally as ridiculous. What he got was Storkules breathing out a short, amused huff as he brought the glass to his beak again. The man took another drink, eyes half-lidded as he smiled and said, “I do not remember the year, but the day we wed; that I remember vividly.”

Then a long arm was stretching over the back of the couch and resting behind Donald’s head. The arm didn’t bend to pull him close and Storkules hadn’t looked in Donald’s direction when he’d moved, so it was difficult to discern why he had done it. Which made Donald want to shove the arm off and ask what the big idea was. But the stork’s calm demeanor, the revelation his friend was sharing, all had him thinking that instead he would let it go. Just the once.

But it didn’t change that he was more aware of his friend’s physicality than he wanted to be. The soft feathers behind his head feeling nice and the warmth radiating from the other bird relaxing him more than the alcohol ever could.

“The story of my mortality is intertwined with that of my marriage. ‘Tis not something I have…” Storkules started speaking, only to trail off once again; that soft smile on his friend’s face was starting to look strained. And while, no he didn’t know the story of Storkules’ marriage or what his time as a mortal was like; he didn’t know what it was even like to be married, having never been in a relationship that lasted more than a few weeks— He could recognize the pain behind in Storkules’ eyes.

“Look, buddy, if you don’t wanna talk about it I understand. I get how hard these things can be.” The devastation of losing his sister had resulted in Donald not telling the boys a single thing about their mother for ten years. And he can’t help but wonder how long that silence would have lasted had they not learned of her on their own. At least until they were adults, maybe longer, maybe never.

The strain around Storkules’ eyes lessened and his smile looked more genuine as he turned to face Donald.

“’Tis though the fates themselves brought you to me.”

In spite of himself, Donald’s face flushed at the softly spoken declaration. He quickly turned away from the stork and finished the rest of his second drink in one long gulp. He coughed in the back of his throat, having drank too fast, but he’d needed it. The drink had been something to occupy his mouth with, to stop him from blurting out something _mean._

And well, he didn’t exactly have that many options when it came to getting away from the mansion and out of the rain so late at night. It was either Storkules’ apartment or the cheapest motel in the city that was still too expensive for him. He didn’t want to risk being kicked out, and being slightly uncomfortable by his friend’s overt fondness was a small, affordable price Donald was willing to pay. Because it wasn’t money. It wasn’t the touch that made him uncomfortable, anyway, but the emotions it evoked.

“What do you mean?” he asked, throat still scratchy from the coughing.

“’Tis a special occasion, one I am oft alone for,” Storkules said as he reached to make Donald another drink. “The anniversary of mine dearly departed wife and I’s wedding.”

Oh.

A newly prepared drink was handed to him, and Donald’s tongue swiped at his bottom bill as he stared down into the glass. Had he intruded? Knocked on the door of a grieving man, the only reason he wasn’t turned away being the pathetic state he’d shown up in and Storkules’ innate kindness? It was an emotional punch to the gut, and Storkules could hit hard. Donald should leave.

“Do you… want me to leave?” he intoned with a slight wince. Usually uncaring about how he came across to other people, Donald wasn’t someone who could ever be described as tactful. No one ever understood him anyway, so what was the point? But Storkules had never made a comment about not being able to understand Donald, his friend was telling him something personal, and so Donald was making an effort to be delicate. With the strongest bird on the planet.

If Storkules wanted him gone, he was gone, but if his friend wanted him to stay and talk. Well, he could do that too.

Storkules shook his head, “no, I would like you to—” Storkules’ eyes widened as if something had just dawned on him, and he turned his head sharply to face Donald. “If you do not wish to speak of it—‘tis a long tale and I shan’t wish to bore you with my—”

Donald bounced his head back against the arm behind him as a gesture to quiet his friend. A long, personal tale that didn’t involve the duck in any way, shape or form, was just what Donald had wanted to hear tonight. “Tell me about your wife, being mortal; not like I’ve got anywhere else to be.”

Storkules blinked at him, and broad shoulders Donald hadn’t noticed were tense relaxed in relief.

“Ah, well then, truly, if there ever were a friend I wished to hear this story, ‘tis none more so than you, dear Donald.” Storkules smiled at him and Donald smiled back, for once not feeling awkward about it.

“Now, where to begin….”

Turned out Storkules’ beginning was his literal birth. Who would have guessed? Donald listened aptly as the god described how his uncle, Lord Hades, plotted his death. How he was poisoned and turned mortal. It all shocked Donald, he had a thousand questions not five minutes in to the tale, but he acquiesced. Storkules spoke of how he was kidnapped and abandon as an infant, how he had been found by humble farmers and raised as a mortal would be.

It was all so different than Donald had expected, and told to him in the most engaging way, that he couldn’t help but lean closer to the man he shared a couch with. Eyes wide and beak open as Storkules told Donald of his many childhood blunders. That there had once been a time that Storkules’ name had been cursed instead of adored. That he had felt as though he never truly belonged anywhere until the day he learned of his former godhood status and was pointed in the direction of someone who could teach him how to be a true hero. Which was apparently the only way he could reclaim said godhood. It didn’t really make sense, but hey, that was Greek mythology.

The more Storkules spoke, the more animated he became in his storytelling, and the less of a problem their closeness became. And not long after he began, the stork was standing to reenact various parts of his tale. Jabbing left and right as he recounted his training, and then did something that completely caught Donald off guard, blowing him away—Storkules started _singing._

Donald was up off the couch in an instant, his tail wagging and knees bending, bouncing as the god sang about being his trainer’s one last hope. It was a catchy tune, fun, and exactly what Donald hadn’t known he’d wanted. His smile was wide and his eyes shone right along with Storkules as the stork talked about the result of his training. How his first attempt at being a hero lead to his first meeting with Megrana. His friend pretended to swoon and Donald laughed, then poked the man’s side and told him not to get distracted.

Storkules laughed as he commented on how she wasn’t very impressed with him at first. Though, he had been smitten almost immediately. Donald chuckled, relating to a woman he had never been fortunate enough to meet. And when the stork said he thought they would have gotten along, he found himself believing it. Someone else who didn’t put up with Storkules’ wonder boy routine? Of course, they would have been friends.

They continued to drink as the god spoke, little sips here and there, a refill or two, and maybe it was the alcohol, but Donald _swore_ he could see every monster Storkules described defeating. He could see the hydra and its many multiplying heads, hear the songs sung by the muses about Storkules’ heroic feats. And Donald just… loved music. So much. Learning that he had yet another musically inclined friend was a joy.

A joy that lead to him participating in Storkules’ storytelling, the two of them standing in the middle of the god’s living room. Donald getting so into it that he started to play along. Acting as a prop, allowing himself to be twirled in a dance, lifted like a trophy, pushing the god’s head away and giggling as he pretended to be an annoyed Megrana.

They were smiling and laughing at each other, moving from one end of the living room to the other, then to the back toward the balcony. Storkules slid open the glass pane door and Donald had enough sense left to worry about the rain he had seen beating against it earlier. Though, he shouldn’t have, as the rain had been coming through a distinctly stork shaped hole in the balcony roof. They stepped around it, stopping at the balcony’s left corner. Donald was completely protected from the rain, but he could see drops land on the stork’s far shoulder.

If the rain bothered Storkules, he didn’t bring it up, instead continuing his tale. The rain adding to the somber turn it had taken as he told of Megrana and his blossoming romance, and her subsequent betrayal.

Donald’s glass was empty by that point, the only contents being a half melted round ball of ice. He didn’t need a refill, though, he was just the right level of tipsy and knew his limits. He wasn’t there yet, but he didn’t want to be; any more and the pleasant feeling buzzing around in his head would turn sharp and stinging. Besides, he didn’t want to be so far gone that he started crying or acting ridiculous. He was already close to tears as Storkules explained how Megrana had sold her soul to his uncle, betrayed him, and not long after sacrificed her life to save him. Leading the hero to travel all the way down to the Underworld to reclaim his love’s soul. To sacrifice himself for her soul, only for his sacrifice to be the very thing that made him immortal, escaping him from his uncle’s evil grasp.

Storkules had achieved his goal of becoming a hero only to give it up to be with the woman he loved, only gaining his immortality back after she had passed. It was so romantic even Donald could admit his knees would weaken if a man were to do the same for him.

“All led to this day, on which thousands of years ago, we were wed.” Finishing his tale, Storkules gripped the metal railing along the balcony. His glass empty and back on the coffee table, forgotten before they had even stepped outside. The stork’s expression was distant and Donald didn’t have to ask what the god was looking at to know it wasn’t the dark, cloud covered sky he was seeing. So, he didn’t ask. Instead opting to be honest about what he thought about Storkules’ tale, about how grateful he was that his friend trusted him enough to share.

“That was incredible,” Donald said, his voice full of genuine awe. “I didn’t know you could sing.”

Whatever Storkules had been expecting Donald to say, that certainly wasn’t it. He could tell by the way the man’s cheeks tinged pink and how he was pressing his index fingers together as he explained, “’Tis not something I partake in often— Father disapproves.” It was such a genuinely bashful look that Donald decided to have some mercy for his friend and change the topic.

“That’s the kind of story they could make a movie out of—Why haven’t you told anyone?” He couldn’t imagine a reason for the tale not to have been written along all the other legends about Storkules. It had everything: action, drama, romance, catchy songs.

“’Twas my beloved Megrana’s wish. She disliked the legends being told about me and wanted no part in them. Some of the myths written of me are not very… kind. In their depiction,” Storkules explained and Donald nodded. It made sense. Not that he had paid much attention during his one semester of Greek mythology in high school, but he remembered a few of the contradicting myths he’d heard about the god. Some portraying him as a heroic ideal not to be matched by mortal men, the others as some tragic, relatable hero who lost himself to his own id.

Knowing the god, Donald could affirm Storkules was without a doubt the former.

“I should hope you will not tell others of this, please. I understand if you simply must, but I greatly prefer that you—”

Donald placed a hand on Storkules’ arm, his tone reassuring as he said, “Of course.”

Storkules smiled down at him and again Donald smiled back, for once not minding the closeness. He retracted his hand and turned the glass in his opposite hand left and right, rolling the ball of ice around just to hear it clink against the sides. The rain was still pouring down, though it had lessened considerably compared to when Donald had first arrived.

“Pity about the weather,” he said conversationally. Much as he would like to, Donald wouldn’t pry further into Storkules’ past marriage or mortality. So, he changed the topic. Not the most interesting topic, but again, he was never any good at small talk.

“Ah, to have rain on such a fine night as this. ‘Tis a blessing from Father,” Storkules said in way of response, dew-eyed and face turned towered where the rain was escaping through the roof. All Donald could do was stare at his friend; beak agape.

Wait, what? A blessing? From _Father?_

“Zeus made it rain?” Donald asked incredulously.

“Ay.”

“For you?”

“Ouchí, for my dear Megrana.”

“….because you’re sad?” Donald questioned, though the act didn’t sound very much like the Zeus he knew. Was the rain meant to reflect Storkules’ inner emotions? That would explain why rain hadn’t been predicted on the fort cast and had come so suddenly.

“My dear Megrana—” Rain drops fell and landed on Storkules’ serenely smiling face and slowly dripped off his beak. Water even landed on the sides of the bird’s face, because Donald could see thin streaks of rain trailing down from the corner of Storkules’ eye. “—How she loved the rain.”

Donald swallowed, his mouth empty. Storkules was… hurting, that much was obvious. The stork could smile up at the sky all night, but Donald could see what lay behind it. What other hidden depths were there to his high-spirted friend? Would Donald have been able to see, if he only he had taken the time to look?

He bit his bottom bill as he stepped closer to his friend, placing his free hand on the stork’s dry shoulder. The touch was so light it was a wonder the god had even felt it. But he had, and soon those tense shoulders relaxed and Donald slowly began to rub comforting circles into the stork’s back. It was something a friend would do. And Storkules offered Donald an appreciative smile before turning his gaze back out to the sky.

“’Twas raining when we were wed, you see.” Storkules began to explain, though he kept his gaze held up in the clouds. “I oft struggle to recount the details of my Mergana’s passing, but our wedding—That I remember. The weather, the cakes, why I could recite every vow passed that day. Hers and mine.”

It was a touching sentiment.

“I… miss her. Tonight more than others, but… the longing, it never ceases.” Guilt gripped his chest, knocked the air out of his lungs, then stabbed straight into his chest just for good measure.

“I know,” Donald said, voice low as he cast his eyes down to the ground far below. He didn’t want to think of his sister; she was the reason he was at Storkules now. And that thought twisted the dagger of guilt stabbing at his chest deep enough to make him physically wince.

He really wasn’t a good friend. Donald had come to Storkules for selfish reasons and here the man was, sharing a past he’d held close to his chest for thousands of years, opening up about a pain Donald had never suspected him of carrying. He’d never given the god enough thought to even question whether he had lost anyone over the course of his unnaturally long life.

Because if he had the answer would have been obvious.

“She was the one who taught me what being a true hero meant and… for a time, after my Megrana passed, I forgot that meaning.” The god’s hands were clenched around the bar that topped off the balcony boundary. Donald wanted to tell him to stop, that the conversation should drop. That he was sorry for not knowing and visiting unannounced. That he was sorry for not knowing and coming sooner.

“I did as the mortals prayed, as my father commanded, but I hath no heroic inclinations of my own.”

That didn’t sound like the Storkules Donald knew. The Greek god was the most noble man Donald had ever met. A little childish, maybe even irritating at times. But a strong, loyal, kindhearted man. A true hero.

“What changed?” Donald asked in spite of his desire for the conversation to end, should the guilt actually be enough to kill him. He was unprepared for the dazzling look of adoration the god turned toward him in answer of his question.

“I met you.”

Donald’s heart thudded hard in his chest and the hand on Storkules’ back stilled. That sounded dangerously close to… He had always _known_ the stork felt that way toward him… He was temperamental, not _blind._

He… he needed to create some distance between them. He wanted to comfort his friend without something being read into it, without leading Storkules on or implying that they could _ever_ be anything more than— Storkules was an attractive, good man, but Donald just couldn’t make those feelings spark. And he of all ducks knew better than to try and start a fire where there was none.

Then, there was the simple fact that he didn’t deserve those affections. Storkules was wrong about him, always had been, but especially as of late. Donald was a changed duck from the time they had first met. He wasn’t the sprightful, young adult who prided himself on helping those in need and putting the good of others before himself.

He was older, his temper was worse, he was bitter at the world, and a liar on top of it all. Donald Duck was no hero. And deep down, he doubted if he ever really had been.

“I had a fight with Della. That’s why I’m here,” Donald said suddenly. Storkules hadn’t asked him why he had shown up and when Donald had fist arrived, he wouldn’t have been honest about the reason. Now though? After everything Storkules had told him, he felt compelled to be honest. If anything, it would finally wake the stork up to the kind of man Donald really was and not the one he was idolized to be.

“Ah, I see. So then you, noble duck, came to mine own apartment to see me and to offer stalwart Della time to recuperate from her defeat.”

“What? No, it wasn’t that kind of fight. It wasn’t because I… wanted to see you. You were just the only bird I knew in Duckburg with a spare couch.” There, he said it. Now, Storkules would know Donald really was a no good—

“’Twas most fortunate for me then, that you knew no others.” His friend said it like Donald wasn’t the worst duck in the world. The god then took a single step toward him, and already the distance Donald had created between them was closed. “Though I lament the tragedy these Duckburgiens must be living, not knowing _the_ Donald Duck.”

Donald laughed in spite of himself. But the laugh turned dour as he recalled the fight. That’s what friends do: they share drinks, they open up about their feelings, comfort each other.

Not that Donald needed comfort, he’d been hurt too many times to need anyone but himself to heal his own wounds. But it would be nice to have someone listen to him for a change. Someone who wasn’t being paid and who cared about him irregardless of his relation to the McDuck clan. Even if the stork really, really shouldn’t.

“It was about the boys,” he started, and then it was Donald’s turn to clench a hand around the balcony’s bar, the one holding his glass clenched squeezing tight as he recounted their latest adventure.

He wasn’t as good a story teller as Storkules and he didn’t try to be. Simply stating the what had happened and how without any flair was enough. He told Storkules about the relic they had left in search for, a magical lamp, recounted how they’d nearly died searching for it. How he had accidentally wished them all into an alternate reality where they could live a normal, safe life. He didn’t get far into his story until the god was interrupting.

“Donald Duck? A normal life? Impossible, heroism is—” Donald held up a hand to cut the god off.

“I know.” Donald said it without looking the stork’s direction. He kept his eyes on the apartment’s parking lot far below, not wanting to look up at a dark sky that made all his worst thoughts feel drearier.

“You know?” Storkules parroted, and Donald nodded.

“I want to protect my family, but I can’t make them change who they are any more than they can change who I am.” And Donald knew they’d tried. “Anyway, anyway,” he waved past the familiar lesson. It wasn’t what the fight had been about anyway. He continued where he had left off. About the alternate reality, how long it felt like they’d been there, as opposed to how long it had really been. Weeks, when only a few hours had passed in the real world.

“We got back to the mansion and put the boys to bed. I knew she was mad at me and we know better than to have a… a _real_ argument in front of the kids.”

Sibling annoyance? The boys had firsthand experience with that. But they had never seen parents fight, not over _them._ They’d never had enough _parents_ at one time for that to be possible before. Now that they did, he never wanted the boys to think they were the cause of any of his and Della’s fights. Because they weren’t, even it was about them. It was all **Della’s** fault.

* * *

_The kitchen door slammed behind him as he stomped into the kitchen after Della. “What were you thinking, Donald?” she shouted at him before he could get a word out._

_“Oh, shove it. Since when have you ever put the boys’ safety over an adventure?” Donald wouldn’t take that kind of accusation from anyone, least of all the woman who—_

_“Don’t you dare suggest I don’t care about their safety! Adventures are one thing, you trapped us in another world! You knew about it and you kept us there for weeks!” She was right and that only made Donald more infuriated. The world threw his failures back in his face enough as it was, he didn’t need his own sister doing it too._

_“It was only for a couple of hours,” he ground out, fist clenched and posture stiff as they both came to a stop in front of the fridge._

_“Oh, please, it felt like weeks and you know it. I mean—haha, who knows what could have happened if we stayed there. Like **you** wanted.” She poked him in the chest and his sister was lucky Donald had been going to therapy, or else the fight would have turned physical right there. “Would our bodies have wasted away? Would the genie suck away at our life force like some kind of life-force stealing vampire; which you KNOW exist!”_

_“What is your problem?” Donald seethed, close to pulling his own feathers out in confusion. “We go on adventures almost every week and you never complain about the boys being in danger.”_

_“Another world, Donald,” she groaned like it answered everything and he was too stupid to understand. Then her eyes narrowed and she continued, “You endangered my kids!”_

_And there it was. Scrooge, Della, they can endanger his boys all they want, but the second Donald does something out of line, they’re on him. They always were. Everyone always was._

_His teeth clenched in an effort not to go too far with his words, tell her off the way he’d been wanting for months, but he couldn’t keep himself quiet for long and his eyes were wild when he finally snapped at her._

_“ **My boys** —”_

_She cut him off with a mocking laugh, her hands on her hips as she leaned forward to glare directly into his face._

_“News flash, Donald. They’re not **your boys** anymore.” Della’s eyes were hard, resembling her twin’s own more than ever in that moment. A thick, silence fell over them after that. And Donald didn’t care that his sister’s eyes widened not seconds after she spoke, that she slapped a hand over her mouth after the words she’d shouted in anger finally registered._

_He was too busy controlling his own heavy, fast breathing. The trembling in his body as he momentarily lost focus of his surroundings. A white rage, blinding in its intensity, made it impossible for him to see anything other than his own open palm held out in front of his face._

_“Donald, Donald, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean, it’s just, in the other world, when you brought up going missing—”_

_He held up his hand, hearing her but not listening. His entire arm was trembling from the effort not to lash out, not to start breaking tables, not to punch something, rip those words right out of her._

_“Don’t,” he said, his entire face boiling in fury._

**_Not your boys._ **

_He couldn’t think, couldn’t count the way the therapist had told him. There were only seconds before he lost control completely and did something he could never take back. Something he could never forgive himself for. So, without a word he spun away from his sister and back toward the kitchen door, his shoulders hunched and hands clenched into fists in front of him._

_“No, Donald, wait! I’m so—”_

_The door slammed behind him hard enough to crack the frame._

* * *

The memory had him rearing his arm back, glass held tightly in hand, but before he could launch it Storkules was snatching it out of his grasp. Donald didn’t snap at the god for tor taking it from him, not having the glass didn’t stop Donald from acting in anger and his clenched fist came slamming down onto metal bar hard enough for the pain to almost register over the anger.

“For ten years I raised those boys!” Donald shouted into the wind. “While she galivanted off to the moon, more concerned with her next big adventure than her own damn kids.” His breathing was becoming wheezy with anger and his body shook from the force to contain it. “I gave up everything for those boys, for ten years they were my life—they still are! And she wants to…. After everything I’ve sacrificed for this family!” His head shook back and forth as he tried to remember his numbers, his breathing exercises, but there was only one ugly thought slithering around in his head; slimy and coating any attempt he made at calming down with its thick black sludge. Smothering his rationale.

The fight with Della had only brought the bitter, disgusting feeling to the surface after he’d spent months shoving it down into the deepest parts of him.

It slid past the anger and crawled up his throat like a creature trying to escape, making him choke on air, and suddenly there was rain dripping down his own face as he brokenly warbled, “And they didn’t even miss me.”

Strong hands ripped Donald away from the balcony and pressed him flush against a hard chest. Arms wrapped around him in a crushing hug, but for once Donald welcomed the embrace. It hid his angry hot tears from the world. He didn’t want to give the cosmic entity that had been against him since birth the satisfaction of _winning_. That he had given in to a feeling he knew he shouldn’t have. A feeling that was wrong, and selfish, and—his voice cracked.

“My sister came back from the _dead_ and they didn’t even think to tell me.”

He tugged himself out of the hug just enough that he could grip Storkules’ arms like they were they were stress balls. Squeezing as hard as he could physically manage, not caring if they broke, too far gone to remember they can’t.

“Trapped on a desert island for a month and they didn’t look for me, an invasion targeting the family, and they didn’t even think to _check._ ” He tugged at off-white feathers as warred within him. He hadn’t lost himself to his emotions like this since…since Della had first disappeared, leaving him to mourn her while picking up the pieces of both their lives.

He hadn’t told Storkules about the fight to garner sympathy, he didn’t need it. He told the man so he would understand that Donald was just an angry duck who almost hurt his sister for being _right_. That he had trapped his family in an alternate reality to make them conform to his ideal of normal.

But here he was, making Storkules’ anniversary all about his own anger and his insecurities. And wasn’t that so very _Donald Duck_ of him?

What else could he do, though? He couldn’t control the tsunami of emotions crashing down on his self-control. Della had said they weren’t his boys anymore, and technically she was right. If Della wanted, she could ban him from ever seeing the boys again, take them away from him. It was her right as their mother, and as only an uncle there would be nothing Donald could do to stop her. She _wouldn’t_ ; Donald knew his sister loved him and would never do something so cruel.

But she _could_ , and the thought, the very possibility, enraged him, terrified him, and made his heart feel like it was going to stop dead in his chest all at the same time.

Donald bit his bottom bill and rubbed his face into Storkules’ chest, whipping away his tears. He didn’t know what he would do if he ever lost the boys. They were his world, his everything, the reason he still got up every morning to face a world that had been against him since day one.

He doesn’t know how long they stayed like that. With Donald held tightly in Storkules’ arms as he trembled, the stork gently rocking back and forth. But he knew that strength of the arms holding him, the steady pressure on his back, was doing more to calm him than any breathing exercises ever had.

“Oh Donald, my dearest, sweet Donald, had I but known of your disappearance.” Storkules pulled Donald off his chest just far enough for them to lock eyes. They were wet as his own. “I would not have rested, I would have scoured the globe, let not one stone go unturned. I would have called upon the might of Olympus itself to assure your safe return.” It was bold declaration spoken through sniffles and a trembling beak.

And Donald didn’t want to, he felt terrible, but the corners of his beak twitched upwards in a small, barely-there smile. It was just comical, seeing a god close to bawling his eyes out. All over an unlucky duck.

“I know you would have,” he said, voice hoarser that usual. Maybe if he’d actually spent more time with his friend, instead of actively avoiding him, the whole thing could have been avoided.

“Thank you,” he added, needing to say it. He felt awful, his throat hurt and his eyes stung. But he didn’t want to throw everything and then himself off the balcony. He had raged and Storkules had contained that rage, something no one had ever done before.

“’Tis no need for thanks,” Storkules told him and Donald opened his mouth to interrupt, because yes, there was. But Storkules next words stilled his tongue. “However, you are welcome nonetheless.”

Donald sighed, but then his family really wouldn’t need him anymore, would they?

Changing the topic again, Donald admitted to another unspoken thought he had been carrying with him. Storkules couldn’t possibly think any worse of him, the stork had just seen the duck at his worst in years.

“Sometimes I wonder, without the anger, who even is Donald Duck?” He took steadying, deep breaths more out of habit than necessity. He wasn’t angry, not at the moment. How long would it last, though? How long would he be just a duck, before the anger and bitterness once again colored his world view red?

“What would the Hero of Heliopolis be without his strength?” Storkules asked dolefully in response, which was no response at all. Unlike Storkules, though, Donald would actually answer his question. It was an easy one, anyway.

“A good friend,” Donald said as he placed a hand over the stork’s forearm and smiled softly up at him. He meant it too. Terrible as he felt now, the night had been a good one. He had been able to open up about his emotions instead of bottling them up, which inevitably led to the top popping and coming out in a dangerous outburst. Storkules was dangerously close to actually earning that best friend title he coveted so dearly. Donald already had two, what was one more?

“And you, a good man,” Storkules said, their eyes meeting, causing a different kind of heat to rise on Donald’s cheeks. The rain and wind had made the outside cold, but the air between himself and Storkules was warm enough to melt butter. His cheeks weren’t just warm, they tingled under Storkules’ desire-full stare. And despite his misgivings, he stared right back.

Whatever Storkules saw reflected back at him must have resembled something akin to permission, because the man was craning his neck down, Somehow, irrevocably, they had created a _mood._

Donald only just barely turned his head away in time to cut off any chance of a kiss. Drinking hadn’t impaired him to the point that he couldn’t recognize a bad idea when it was directly in front of him. Even if he had pushed the alcohol past his limit, the metaphorical slap to the face that was his admission over no one in his family missing him when he was gone, would have been enough to sober him up. Donald knew better than to let Storkules kiss him. Because it wouldn’t end there.

A warm body to share the night with? For Donald, it had been well over a decade since his last time.

“Storkules, you’re a nice guy, I care about you, as a _friend_. But I just don’t… toward you, I can’t...” It was difficult to clarify, and there was a small, increasingly loud part of Donald that didn’t want to. That wanted to keep the warmth of Storkules all to himself, even if he would never return its intensity. He wanted it because it was soft, loving, and just for _him_. A horrible, selfish desire that Donald had thought himself better than.

“This need not be anything,” Storkules said, breaking through Donald’s rambling, sounding all mature again. “I simply offer you comfort; however you wish to find it.”

There was an unspoken out there. Comfort could come in many forms. Talking on the couch, more drinks, they could end the night and Donald simply go to sleep, or… he could go to _bed._

“… I don’t want to hurt you,” Donald finally admitted. Not that he didn’t want what Storkules was offering, but the fallout that would come as a result of it. He and Storkules had undeniably deepened there bond this night—as closer friends than before, nothing more than that.

“My dear Donald, I have learned to live with centuries of longing. Please…” Storkules tenderly cupped the side of Donald’s head while still holding him up with his opposite arm and turned it to face him. A large thumb lovingly slid underneath his eye to wipe away a tear he hadn’t realized was there. “… allow me to miss you when you are gone.”

Oh, phooey. Donald was only a duck. Storkules was a fully grown immortal adult. If the god woke up with a broken heart, it wasn’t Donald’s fault.

The wind cooled the rising heat on Donald’s cheeks as he leaned up, one hand on the side of Storkules’ face as he pressed their beaks together in short, tentative kiss. He slid his hand from the bird’s long neck to hesitantly ply at the feathers where it connected to his shoulder. Ending the kiss before Storkules has a chance to return it, Donald turned his head to the side again to avoid eye contact.

“You know this doesn’t mean anything, right? We’re still just friends,” he said demurely. The words difficult to get out, want for the other bird thickly coating his tongue. The idea was there, the desire to connect with someone who understood him. If Storkules were to turn him down now—

“Best friends,” Storkules said, and the softness in his voice was enough to turn Donald’s head. Friends… Friends loved each other. They comforted each other. And maybe Storkules needed the warmth of another body that night just as much as Donald did. It was what Donald told himself, anyway. And not that he was leading a man dying of thirst to water and telling him he could only take a sip.

Then Storkules leaned down to kiss him, angling his beak slightly to avoid poking Donald with the sharp tip, and Donald closed his eyes as he kissed back. He ran his hands over Storkules’ broad shoulders and back, squeezing the hard muscle and sliding his fingers through silky feathers as he allowed the man to carry him into the apartment; into the bedroom.

* * *

Waking up was uneventful for Donald, which was an event in and of itself. No kids, monsters, or catastrophes to wake him? Not even a loud noise, the only thing Donald able to hear as he forced his eyes open being what sounded like the sizzling of oil on a skillet. Food.

Just the thought had his stomach grumbling. Time to get up then, loath as he was to leave the comfortable, too-big bed and crawl out from under the thick comforter that covered him. Which he did, and was met with an immediate problem when his webbed-feet touched the floor and he tried to stand.

His legs shook and Donald placed a hand on his hip, bending back in an effort to ease his soreness. He felt like he’d gone on three different adventures, or was it four? All in a row and all of which involved unconscionable amounts of leg and core exercises. The flexible, pliable bird he’d been bent into last night was completely gone. Replaced by a duck who had to widen his stiff waddle just to get out the bedroom door.

He hadn’t bothered putting on his uniform; Storkules had already seen all of him, and if he was being honest. A new habit he was trying to form; it stank. The rain had really done a number on it. He would definitely be using that in-unit washer and dryer set up the apartment had.

“What are you making?” Donald asked as he came into the kitchen. His stomach growled loudly at the smell coming off of whatever meat was currently sizzling on a frying pan. He placed a hand over his stomach, remembering how little he had eaten the day before. He was starving.

“Breakfast! Haha!” Storkules exclaimed while expertly flipping whatever was in the skillet.

The stork wore nothing but an apron, and Donald acquiesced that it wasn’t a bad sight to wake up to. A competent, skilled man, or woman even, would always be an attractive sight to Donald. And just like when the god had made them drinks last night, Donald thought Storkules looked good cooking. He felt no guilt thinking so. The relief that came from allowing himself these thoughts without fear of making something of them did wonders to relax his stiff body. He and Storkules were friends who found each other attractive, it wasn’t any deeper than that. And it never would be.

The stork then turned to face him, words dying in his beak as it hung open at what he saw. Donald, leaning against the kitchen table with his arms crossed over his chest, not a cloth in sight. And Donald, fully aware of the effect it would have on his friend, grinned at his friend with one brow raised.

“Something you wanna say, pal?” He tilted his head to the side, trying to get a better look at the breakfast was cooking up, but the big guy’s frame blocked the entire stove.

“T…’twas unsure what you would prefer come morning; tea or coffee? So, I hath prepared both,” Storkules said nervously, his cheeks flushed as he tried and desperately failed to look anywhere but Donald’s bare body.

It was cute. 

“Which would you prefer, friend Donald?” Storkules smiled at him, finally regaining his composure. It was a normal, friendly smile. And with it Donald knew their relationship hadn’t changed, just friends. Only with a newly added benefit. He smiled back and stepped forward to see if Storkules needed any help, his legs still a little shaky as he moved.

“Coffee, _friend_ Storkules.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was an idea rattling around in my head that wouldn't leave me alone. And until the show gives us Donald dealing with his trauma of being captured and then stranded, I'll just have to do it myself. 
> 
> Feedback, even criticism is greatly appreciated. 
> 
> Megs new name is a reference to the Merganser bird. 
> 
> Greek translations:  
> Signómi, den tha to xanakáno- Sorry, I won't do it again.  
> Ναί- Yes  
> óchi- No


End file.
